


there's this tune i found that makes me think of you somehow

by runthemredlightsbabe



Series: pieces [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Language of Flowers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:45:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9372830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runthemredlightsbabe/pseuds/runthemredlightsbabe
Summary: “You know, for someone who used to sell drugs for a living,” Akaashi remarks nonplussed, “This is pathetic.”“It’s coming for my soul, Aka-chan.”“He’s a rabbit, Oikawa. He weighs a kilogram and a half.”“Hellspawn!”“He has three legs.”“You think that’s his weakness?” Oikawa hisses. “That stub leg of his is the root of all evil.”“You need to get over this,” Akaashi says. “It’s irrational. And weird.”(this was titled "rip akaashi" in my docs)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Au originally based on [Thorahathi's](http://thorahathi.tumblr.com/post/146504523267/bokuto-is-all-lookwho-ive-metaaaa) beautiful art. Do yourself a favor and check out her blog. It's really worth it. 
> 
> Once again, so much thanks to my wonderfully talented friend, [crowswillfly](http://crowswillfly.tumblr.com/) who you should also check out, because they are an awesome writer, and an equally awesome DJ. Their playlist for this series can be found on [8tracks](http://8tracks.com/skihale/pieces) or [youtube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL2UINVOA5TkdluzDa1oJ2RbL1SQR7psNp)!
> 
> Also a big thank you to all of you who left kudos or comments. You are incredible and so very, very kind! Thank you for everything that you do. 
> 
> Title from Arctic Monkey's "Do I Wanna Know"

Akaashi’s Tuesday begins with omelettes.

“Hello, person who does not live here,” He says, standing in the entrance to the kitchen, blinking away sleep as his brother paws helplessly at his oven. It is six am.

“Aka-chan, your stove won’t turn on,” Oikawa chides, as if it’s somehow Keiji’s fault that Oikawa is incompetent. “And I’m so hungry.”

It is six am, and his brother is in his kitchen insulting his cookery. It is, by all definitions of the phrase,  _too goddamn early for this shit._

“How did you get into my house?” Akaashi says, shoving his brother out of the way to negotiate a flame out of his crotchety stove. “I don’t remember giving you a house key.”

“I stole it from Tobio-chan,” Oikawa crows giddily, boosting himself onto the counter. “He’s so cute. Falls to pieces in my hands.”

“Yeah, because you’re the worst,” Kageyama retorts, peering at the two of them through heavy lids. “Make me an omelette, Akaashi.”

“Make yourself an omelette,” Akaashi says, even as he adds two more eggs to the bowl, sweeping Oikawa’s grabby little hands out of the way to throw in a handful of spices. “You should still be asleep.”

“Yes, mother,” Kageyama says impishly. Akaashi whacks him with his spatula. Egg goes flying.

“I’ll kick you out,” Akaashi threatens.

“As if. You’re too attached,” Tobio sticks out his tongue. “You’ll kick me out the day Oikawa gets laid.”

“Hey!” Oikawa squawks, and flings a nearby bag of rice. Kageyama deflects it, snickering. “I was going to invite you to stay at my house, but I take it back! You can rot on the streets like the stupid space-orphan that you are.”

“Your face looks like an egg.”

“Your face looks like a potato.”

“Your mom’s a potato.”

“Your penis is a potato.”

“Blow me.”

“I will, and I'll blow your goddamn mind while I'm at it,” Tooru hooks a finger around Kageyama’s sweatpants strings, and yanks the younger boy up against the counter, trapping him with his knees, a frankly terrifying predatory look in his eyes. Taken totally off-guard by the complete 180, Kageyama turns pink and starts making choking sounds.

Coming to the aid of his idiot kid, Akaashi flicks egg at Oikawa. It spatters across his face, and he recoils with a yowl, releasing Kageyama. The dark-haired boy flees the scene, still blushing.

Keiji returns to his omelettes.

Out of what is probably some stupid, misguided attempt to be vindictive and annoying, Oikawa continues his irritating thrashing, whimpering, “Aka-chan is so mean to me! My little brother!” and such until Akaashi gets fed up.

“You need a leash,” He says, pulling two plates down from the cabinet above his head. They don’t match, but neither do Oikawa’s socks, so Akaashi doesn’t feel bad. “Paws off. He’s seventeen. You’re twenty-four.”

“And you’re twenty-one.”

“Yes, but I’m not trying to shove my hands down his pants, now am I?”

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” Oikawa whines, rattling the counter like a petulant child. “He likes me _back_ , Keiji. If he didn’t, I would stop.”

“I know,” Keiji says grimly. “But Kageyama needs support. Friends, not lovers.”

“Ye of little faith,” Soft fingers curl through the pin-feather hair at the nape of Akaashi’s neck. “I can do both, little brother. You’ll see. I really like him, and he really likes me. We’re good together. We fit.”

There’s a little bit of wonder in his voice, just a little bit of breathy excitement. His eyes are open and vulnerable, wide and hopeful and a little dazed, and a little sulkish. Akaashi’s willpower crumbles.

“I know,” He whispers, “I know. But Tobio-kun is my responsibility, Oikawa. I'm supposed to take care of him. And he’s not stable enough for a real relationship. He’s so easily misguided. He'll exchange platonic love for infatuation, and mistake being used for being loved. You’ve seen it yourself- he’ll fall to anyone who will give him a moment of their day. He’s desperate for love. And that’s dangerous.”

“So what’re you saying? Am I supposed to teach him the ropes of romance, or something?” Oikawa says, raising an eyebrow. "That seems sketchy."

“I’m telling you to get to know him,” Akaashi corrects. He puts his hands on his hips. “You said you could do both. So prove it.”

“Protective Aka-chan is so serious,” Oikawa says, poking Keiji between the eyes. “You’re gonna get wrinkles like an old lady.”

They aren’t really brothers, not by blood anyway, but their lives are so unerringly interwoven, have been for so many years, that it’s impossible to think of Tooru as anything but family. They grew up together in a bad part of town, not more than fifteen minutes on the Ginza line from Akaashi’s very apartment, born and raised in the same shitty apartment complex with loud neighbors, rusted locks and broken glass. Oikawa’s dad was never home, Akaashi’s parents never left. At night, they would talk to each other through the paper-thin walls, during the day they would sit on the roof and Tooru would teach Keiji how to hide a black eye under powder and Keiji would teach Tooru how to ice a swollen lip. It was a bond bent on loneliness and desperation, and when Oikawa was fourteen and Akaashi was eleven, they ran away together. They learned how to pick pockets and hide in shadows, how to play tourists for money and where to run when the police came. Oikawa stole things, and sometimes he sold drugs. Keiji stole things, and sometimes, he sold himself.

Eventually, they ended up in a home for strays, and were forced back to school. That was when Oikawa met Kuroo and Iwaizumi and where Akaashi met Noya and Tadashi and both of their lives were inextricably changed. Even eight years later, it’s still hard to look at Oikawa without seeing the scared, bandaged teenage boy who told Akaashi that they were going to a better place.

“He’s my kid. I’m supposed to be protective. Which means I’m legally allowed to stab out your kidneys with chopsticks if you hurt him,” Keiji promises darkly. Tooru laughs.

“Yeah, yeah. You’ll see,” He leaps off the counter and steals both plates out from Akaashi’s hands. “Give me a month. Six weeks, tops.”

“Before what?” Akaashi says scathingly. “You’re making out on my living room couch?”

“True love,” Is Oikawa’s cryptic and entirely unhelpful response. He dashes into the living room before Akaashi can hurl something else at him.

Not more than a few seconds later, there is a horrific, drawn-out scream from the living room, followed promptly by ‘thwacking’ sounds and Kageyama calling Oikawa a ‘fucking idiot’.

Akaashi investigates.

Kageyama is crushed into the far end of the couch, looking generally enraged. Oikawa is perched on top of him, clutching a pillow and staring intently at a small white creature planted in the middle of the room.

“You know, for someone who used to sell drugs for a living,” Akaashi remarks, nonplussed. “This is kind of pathetic.”

“It’s coming for my soul, Aka-chan.”

“He’s a rabbit, Oikawa. He weighs a kilogram and a half.”

“Hellspawn!”

“He has three legs.”

“You think that’s his _weakness_?” Oikawa hisses. “His stub leg is the root of all evil.”

“You need to get over this,” Akaashi tells him. “It’s irrational. And weird.”

“Mark my words, Akaashi Keiji,” Oikawa crooks a finger, waggles it forebodingly. “That beast will be the death of us all.”

The aforementioned beast sets about cleaning its ears. Oikawa makes a cross with his fingers. Kageyama summons all of his might and topples Oikawa to the floor. Squabbling ensues.

“Idiots,” Akaashi says. He picks up Briefcase, touches his ears. The rabbit nibbles affrontedly at his fingers as he returns to the kitchen to clean.

Later, he finds Tooru with his head in Kageyama’s lap, recounting the plot of what is probably Star Wars. There is a softness about them both, and when Kageyama catches him watching, he looks flustered and guilty, like he’s been caught doing something bad. Keiji’s heart contracts in a flood of affection.

He smiles, and leaves them to their peace.

***

Akaashi straightens, enjoying the liquid crack of his spine as he leans back in his chair, setting down the tattoo gun and reaching with gloved hands for a jar of cotton gauze. “You’re done.”

Tsukishima sits up gingerly, reaching for his glasses. “Ow.”

“Should be sore for the next forty-eight hours,” Akaashi says without much inflection, because Tsukishima has heard it all before. He’s Akaashi’s favorite regular. “Don’t get it wet, keep unnecessary physical activity to a minimum, and change the bandage every ten hours for the next three days.”

“Thanks,” The boy says, craning his neck to leave room for Akaashi as he starts the bandaging process. “When can I come back to finish?”

“Two weeks,” Akaashi says, and then at the mutinous silence, presses down on the sore ink. “Minimum, Tsukishima. Let your body heal.” Tinto de Cuervos prides itself in its high-quality products and meticulous inking, but Tsukishima is toeing the line of blood poisoning. Akaashi can’t decide whether it’s the kid’s addiction to pain or ink or Tadashi Yamaguchi’s breathless face, but he’s moderately concerned about him nonetheless.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tsukishima yanks his shirt back over his head, covering the network of bandages that start at his collarbone and work down over the planes of his chest and stomach. "Thank you."

He’s Akaashi’s favorite regular and best-kept secret; the only soul in the whole world to carry Akaashi’s watermarked designs.

“You’re welcome,” Keiji says. The kid bows politely, and makes a quick exit, per his aloof and obsessive routine.

Akaashi waits the approximate amount of time for Tsukishima to walk out of earshot before announcing, “You need to get laid.”

“I know,” Tadashi agrees, invisible behind the paper screens that separate Tinta de Cuervo’s artist booths. Each is hand-painted by Noya, depicting crows in every stage of flight. “Did you see his abs?”

“No,” Akaashi lies. He may have the sexual drive of a sterile turtle but he’s not _blind_. “I was focused on my job. Like you should be. What _are_ you doing right now?”

“Pining,” Yamaguchi says, finally connecting a body to his voice as he turns the corner. “They could probably cut steel, you know.”

Akaashi raises an incredulous eyebrow. “His abs?”

“What else?” Tadashi leans over Akaashi’s shoulder and picks up the one frame perched among his collection of inks, pens, tape, and gloves. It’s a rough sketch of Akaashi, Noya, Tadashi and Oikawa, sitting together on the Tokyo curb, originally traced on a napkin. It was an early birthday present from Kageyama, and Akaashi treasures it like a golden coin, partly because he keeps everything Kageyama draws for him (a strange sentiment, Akaashi sometimes wonders if this is what they call ‘over-attached’), but also because his friends look genuinely happy, and there isn’t much else in the world Akaashi would wish for than to see his most precious people happy. “And it doesn’t matter. Like I said, he's blind as a bat. A beautiful, brooding bat. With glasses. And glorious abs.”

“Maybe he’s desensitized,” Akaashi offers sardonically, pulling off his latex gloves. “This may come as a shock, but you are not really subtle. I saw you in that skirt the other day.”

“I looked good,” Tadashi trills smugly. “That got his attention.”

“You have a problem,” Keiji informs, and then adds, somewhat grudgingly, “And nice legs.”

“Damn straight. I’m such a whore for his love,” Tadashi agrees, a hazy contentment spreading across his cheeks. Akaashi tries not to flinch at the word ‘whore’ and only kind of succeeds. “Oh, right. I was supposed to tell you- Oikawa sent a messenger over. He’s waiting in the back room for you.”

“For how long?”

“I dunno. Probably a while, now.”

“You have like, two jobs,” Keiji says, totally exasperated. “Two. How are you so bad at them?”

“I have a sex-drive the size of China and I am weak for blondes with attitude problems.”

“Get out of my booth.”

***

It’s not uncommon for visitors to drop by, carrying totally inane messages from Hinata to Kageyama or Noya, Oikawa to Akaashi or Kageyama or Terushima, Kuroo to anyone who will listen, because everyone is completely insane and don’t understand how to be functional human beings. Still, he’s taken-aback to find the boy from yesterday looking not entirely out-of-place among the piles of ink and pens and cans of paint, canvas and tarps, sweaters and coffee mugs and candy wrappers, loose newspapers and malnourished plants.

“Hello, Akaashi!” Bokuto calls excitedly, spying Keiji as he approaches with caution. He’s dressed in a white, gold, and black sports jersey, and it rushes as he moves. “How’re you doing? Nice place!”

“I’m doing fine, Bokuto. Thank you,” Akaashi says, and feels the ghost of a smile pass across his lips. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Oikawa wanted me to ask you if you were up for a gyoza run after work at that all-night place,” Bokuto says, picking up a watercolor brush and running his finger across the bristles ever-so-gently. “Also, I wanted to come scope out the place, because Kuroo said you were like, the best tattoo artist in the business, and I’ve been wanting a new one.”

“You have tattoos?” Keiji asks, thrown. 

“Yeah, a couple. Wanna see?” Without waiting for Akaashi’s answer, Bokuto slides out of his jacket and bares his skin proudly. His tattoos are… unexpectedly simplistic. Small. Beautiful. A pea-sized heart on the inside of his left wrist, a constellation on his forearm, a line or a lyric or a poem written in Korean on the plane of his bicep. A sprout, just in the crook of his elbow, and a pattern of meaningless dots on the back of his hand.

“I got my first one when I was fourteen,” Bokuto explains, running his thumb over the sprout, expression quiet and tender. “It’s an oak sapling - the first thing I ever grew. I found the acorn and I planted it and I watered it all by myself.”

“It’s very nice,” Keiji smiles softly, and it’s true, because the lines are neat and careful and well-crafted. “All of them are.”

“Thanks, Akaashi,” Bokuto smiles at him. “Hey, hey, by the way, do you think I could schedule an appointment with you? I was admiring your work while I was waiting, and it’s so good!” He points excitedly to the small, dog-eared display book exhibiting what his friends consider his best work. Normally, it sits up front with whoever is manning the front desk for customers to examine. Someone must have slipped it to Bokuto, most likely Noya, who is just a little ways off, pretending to inspect a fresh order of paint while blatantly eavesdropping on their conversation.

“Umm,” Akaashi blinks, caught off-guard. “Yes, that’s fine. I’m booked for the next several days, but I have openings next week. Can you do Friday?”

“Friday?” Bokuto’s golden eyes glitter thoughtfully. “Yeah, I can do Friday.”

“At midnight?”

“Midnight,” Bokuto promises.

“Okay,” Keiji files the appointment away into his mind, trusting his obsessive compulsive brain to keep it somewhere safe. “Do you know what you would like?”

“Still deciding,” The boy smiles, like it’s some inside joke that they’re both privy to. “I’m full of ideas. I’m sure you’ll be amazing either way.”

“Thank you,” Bokuto makes Akaashi feel peculiar and vulnerable, and it’s not really all that pleasant. Akaashi has lived his life in the gray space between ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ for all of his life. Seeing someone who is unapologetically honest and unabashedly kind, it’s… strange. Uncomfortable. New. “And tell Oikawa that I can’t, tonight. I’m busy.”

“Man,” Bokuto shakes his head. “He’s gonna get all sad and dejected now. He’s gonna sulk and make sure nothing productive gets done all day.”

“My brother is not always the most rational of people,” Akaashi agrees. “He lets his emotions get the best of him. Tell him that I’m free tomorrow.”

He has things to do later tonight, and the reminder chills his veins. There is a direct correlation between the quantity of things late in the night and how ugly he feels, how many bruises he has to plot, how empty he looks in the mirror the next morning.

“Whoa, you okay, Akaashi?” Bokuto asks, reaching out. There are worried creases between his monster eyes. “You look sick to your stomach.”

“I’m fine,” Keiji steps back, jerking out of the way of Bokuto’s touch. “Just haven’t eaten a lot today.”

The open concern on Bokuto’s face tells Akaashi that the wild-haired boy doesn’t really believe him, and Akaashi suddenly wants this conversation to end as soon as possible. He decides that he does not like this strange, golden-eyed boy, not at all.

“Okay!” Bokuto smiles. “I should go back to work, but maybe I’ll see you later, ‘kay, Akaashi? ‘Kay?”

 _He has dimples_ , Akaashi notices detachedly. He feels a headache looming. “Maybe.”

***

Approximately ten seconds after Bokuto has left, Nishinoya appears at Akaashi’s shoulder, an electric burst of high-pressure energy.

“So,” He says. “Bokuto seems nice.”

“Mmm,” Akaashi says noncommittally. He reaches for the pile of cluttered papers on his desk, more as a way to block out what he has a feeling is going to be An Annoying And Well-Meaning Interrogation than to organize.

“He asked for you.”

“He had a message for me.”

“Yeah, but he asked _about_ you.”

Akaashi doesn’t dignify this with a response. He folds three bills under a clipboard and reminds himself to pass them along to Kenma. 

“He asked _specifically_ about you.” Nishinoya continues, undeterred.

Akaashi gives Nishinoya a Look. But Noya, impervious as ever to Akaashi’s subtle threats, merely grins.

“Come on, aren’t you a little curious about what he wanted to know?”

“Not especially.”

“Liar,” Noya pouts. His brilliant amber eyes shine in the low, lavender light. When they were first designing Tinto, Nishinoya had convinced Tadashi and Keiji to install mood lighting, which had, admittedly, not seemed like the worst idea at the time. However, since they were working on an almost non-existent budget, it had been up to the three of them to install it, and while together, they could probably recreate a Miyazaki movie, they were absolutely helpless at electrical wiring. Subsequently, nothing really worked the right way and the lights did whatever the fuck their little electrical circuits wanted for the most part. “You _have_ to be curious. He’s showing interest! That never happens!”

“That is historically untrue, people hit on me all the time,” Akaashi says, and then curses himself for his mindlessness.

 _Don’t respond to him, idiot. Now he’ll never shut up_.

“It is soooo,” Nishinoya claps him soundly on the back. “He likes you.”

“I’m fairly certain there aren’t many people Bokuto doesn’t like.”

“Not that kind of like. _Like_ like,” Nishinoya forces himself in between Akaashi and his desk. Corned against the whitewashed wall, Akaashi has no choice but to sulk and look reproachful.

“I’m sorry, are we twelve again?”

“Aww, _Rojo_ , don’t be like that,” Noya pleads. He has an inordinate amount of canary-yellow paint in his hair and a brush tucked behind his ear. “C’mon, indulge me a little. What do you think about Bokuto?”

Keiji sighs, rubs at his face, pleads with the gods. “I think he’s a very genuine person, Yuu. Very kind. And sweet.”

“And attractive!”

“THIS CONVERSATION IS OVER,” Akaashi tells him flatly, and Nishinoya starts laughing.

“You do! You do think he’s attractive!” He says, loud enough for Kenma and Terushima to overhear. Two similarly-colored heads appear over the top of Kenma’s DS, identical looks of glee on their faces.

“I hate you,” Akaashi tells Noya. "I hate you so much."

“OH DEAR,” Noya says, feigning dismay. “I THINK THEY MIGHT HAVE HEARD ME SAY THAT AKAASHI KEIJI THINKS BOKUTO KOUTAROU IS ATTRACTIVE!”

“Wear protection!” Kenma shouts.

“If I catch you making out, I’m telling Oikawa,” Terushima adds.

“You are all going to burn in hell.”

“Come on, ‘Kaashi. We’ve been friends for, what, eleven years?”

“We’re not friends. I don’t like you.”

Nishinoya rolls his eyes. “And I’ve never seen you interact with a stranger you didn’t like. But you were having a nice time talking to Bo- admit it.”

“No.”

“You enjoyed it.”

“I did not.”

“I know you did.”

“Prove it,” Akaashi grumbles, just to be spiteful. This turns out to be a mistake.

“ _Por el amor de Dios_ , Akaashi, you smiled!” Nishinoya sort-of shouts. Akaashi stiffens.

Yuu’s voice drops to a wondering murmur. “He made you smile. I saw it.”

Keiji takes a long time to respond, too, because when he keeps coming up blank when he searches for a counter-argument. Because Noya is right. And that's scary.

So he settles on something safe. “He’s very kind.”

Noya’s shoulders drop in defeat. He looks weary, like Keiji’s drained him. “Okay, Akaashi. I’ll leave it alone. Just, don’t… don’t automatically push him away because he’s different, yeah? He’s a pretty cool guy. I think he could do you some good.” He touches Akaashi’s cheek fondly, and then walks over to Terushima and Kenma.

Akaashi stares after him for a while, then looks down at his desk and takes a deep breath.

***

He discovers the flowers tucked between the pages of his design booklet. A cluster of tiny, pale flowers, with light stems and delicate petals. They breathe fruit across Akaashi’s tongue.

_Hey, hey, hey, Akaashi!!_

_Here’s another flower for you, okay? It’s an elderflower branch! They’re not as hard to grow as the dalia, and they smell really, really good. They’re one of Oikawa’s favorites, even though he’d never say it. He pretends to be really picky about which flowers he likes the most, but the truth is, he loves all of them._

_To give someone an elderberry flower means you think they’re compassionate. Which I do. I know you’re really, really kind, and you do everything you can for your precious people. That’s what everyone tells me. Noya and Hinata and especially your brother. That you’re a really good person, and that you’re always taking care of them, even when they don’t deserve it. They say that you’re selfless, and that you put everyone before you. That’s pretty amazing._

_I think being a little selfish sometimes is okay, though. Because you gotta take care of yourself, too. Right? Otherwise you can’t take care of other people. And your life sort of falls apart. You know, you gotta be happy too. Can’t go around sacrificing everything you have for people you love, because then what’s left for you?_

_Or something. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m not smart. I just work at a flower shop. I grow plants. I didn’t even go to college._

_Oh, also! Please eat something! Oikawa said you work too hard and never eat enough. Then Iwaizumi told him to shut up because “you’re such a hypocrite, Shittykawa”, which is probably true. I think you both work too hard._

_Anyway! Have a nice night, okay? I’ll see you soon!!_

Akaashi stuffs the paper back into his desk, and pinches the skin on his wrist really hard until his breathing goes back to normal.

He keeps the flowers, though.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a theme, oh god, it's a theme. Or a motif. Is there a difference?  
> (For someone who writes so much, I know very little about writing)
> 
> Por el amor de Dios- "for the love of God"  
> Rojo- 'red'.  
> (you will have to pry the hc that Nishinoya is Latino and calls all of his friends by different, patronizing nicknames from my cold, dead hands) 
> 
> Come bother me on my [Tumblr.](http://iamtherabbitwhisperer.tumblr.com/) I am always here to talk about volleyball shenanigans.


End file.
